


Metamorphosis

by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post Stinger scene, Some depictions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 23:23:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15520983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow/pseuds/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow
Summary: “Dr. Du Maurier,” he begins, greeting her like an old friend “or should I call you Lydia Fell?” A post-stinger fic.





	Metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @Kmo for talking through this fic with me! :)

She regains consciousness in a haze, her mouth dry and feeling as though its filled with cotton. It takes several moments for Bedelia to realize she is still in her home; it is nearly unrecognizable. Her eyes shift and attempt to focus. Gaudy candles (a gift from her mother, always hidden away in the china cabinet) adorned the table. Smell is the second of her senses to trickle in after sight. Her nostrils inhale what can only be meat: rich and honied. It has been years since she has tasted meat, and yet she begins to salivate. Her cloudy mind reaches for incomplete self-evaluations, and questions the half-life of classical conditioning, of the role of the experimenter and the subject. The cogs in Bedelia’s brain begin to turn faster, and she shifts from Pavlovian introspection to fear. She registers her heart, beating erratically in her chest as if it's trying to escape, sounding off the alarm that this is _wrong, wrong, wrong,_ and preparing her to _run, run, run._

As if reminding her of her own fear and its proximity, a memory flashes through her mind. A hiss into the shell of her ear, and hot, searing pain before complete blackness. Her breaths come out shallow, and the room begins to fully-focus. An ornate feast adorns the table, and she suddenly realizes she has reached her intended, but still untimely, end. Confusion registers before betrayal begins to warm her insides and twist in her stomach. _Why now? Why after everything?_

Bedelia eyes dart around the room, finally landing on the oyster fork. The suggestion of oysters doesn’t miss her, providing the final clue. This was to be her last supper. Her body and blood would be broken down and eaten. Two chairs sit at the table, mocking. Only these were not her disciples and she was no Jesus Christ, no absolver of sins, no innocent. She had not willingly given herself over to them. She feels a dull aching in her chest which soon transforms into shame as she thinks of how foolish she’s been; to trust him; to _love_ him.

She flexes her fingers, and upon realizing they’re in working order, slowly moves her hand to grasp the oyster fork. Lowering it to her lap, her eyes fall, and through the slit in the dress she sees the thick white wrappings. Her eyebrows furrow, and her head tilts, her mouth opening slightly. There is a dull pain under the wrappings, which begins to seep up her body; a trade of sorts: cognition in exchange for pain. She was always trading with him, secrets, or favors, or half-truths, only this time there was no deal to be made. This time, he just takes.

The cafeteria Catholicism upbringing from her mother flickers in once again, jumbled with years of Shakespearean literature. Bedelia remembers entering their first bargain, her apparent deal with the devil whispered in few words. ‘ _Will you help me?’_ She assumes this is the price, her pound of flesh. She feels swindled, but also wounded and naïve. Betrayed. She thought she meant _more_ to Hannibal. How could she have been so foolish, after all she knew about him? Why didn’t she run, truly disappear forever this time? 

Tears begin to prickle in the corner of her eyes and she doesn’t have the energy to stop them. She will survive, that much she knows, but already she mourns the loss of a life never truly lived. Memories of Hannibal brushing her hair mix with daydreams that she now realizes are pipe dreams. Walking along the shoreline, his hand gently around her waist, their skin freckled with sun. She wonders how much of their plan was a façade and for how long? The recipes he sent were not a cover, Bedelia connects, but a cruel taunt. A promise of things to come. She wonders bitterly how long Hannibal and Will Graham had been mocking her. The pain in her leg begins to increase and she closes her eyes tightly, breathing in deeply through her nostrils.    

 “Dr. Du Maurier,” he begins, greeting her like an old friend “or should I call you Lydia Fell?”

Her eyes snap open immediately. The man is wearing a plaid tailored suit, and his thinning hair is slicked back with a layer of pomade. She notices the similarities immediately, but it doesn’t answer the questions that race through her mind. Her confusion is palpable, and she cannot keep it from her face; he is not who she expected. Still, she is relieved.

“Surprised?” he mocks “so was I when I listened to your lecture and heard all about your _escape_ from Florence.” There is a sneer in his words, a hint at the secrets he thinks he knows with a raise of his eyebrows. Bedelia licks her dry lips, and steels herself.

 “You will pay” she breathes slowly and deeply, concentrating on forming the words with her sluggish, stiff mouth, slurring out her final words “for what you have done to me.”

He smiles then, and leaves to prepare the rest of the feast.

* * *

She is unsure of how long she sits, pressing the tines of the fork into her right thigh to distract from the pain in her left. Her mind is working faster, polishing the plan that begins and ends with the oyster fork clenched in her fist. Her cellphone, if her captor hadn’t found it, would be in the end table just off the foyer. A call to the police would reignite the case and ruin their plans to escape. She could never betray him in that way.   

Her thoughts are suddenly interrupted as her body lights up in white hot light, and she nearly shouts from the sudden, intense pain, a low moan escaping instead. Her pain tolerance was high, but this was an entirely new experience. The man hurries back into the room, and Bedelia stares him down breathing through her teeth, refusing to let him see her completely compromised.

When he returns with her plate of oysters, her pain has reached a new high, and sweat is at her brow. Her vision begins to double and she knows it must be now or she will lose her opportunity forever. Her body won’t take much more before she faints and never wakes up again.

“It’s truly a shame you didn’t remain on your special diet,” he says, placing the plate down like a trained server, much too fast and not nearly close enough.

When he returns with the final dish, she plays her hand. Bedelia throws her head back in anguish, crying-out, breathing heavily. It is not an act, not entirely; she has simply vocalized the pain she previously worked to control. Without her suppression, she is a quintessential picture of suffering. Sweat slips down her porcelain skin, her expression one of abandoned agony. “Pl-ease,” she whimpers, “p-pain,” she stutters out the word in a voice too high-pitch to be her own.  

He considers for a moment, and then nods. “We can’t have dinner spoiled with your whining.”

He returns with a hypodermic needle, and she clenches the oyster fork in her palm under the table, her fingers wound tight as possible around it. He is close now, and she can smell his aftershave; pungent and cheap.

She can practically feel the blood in his carotid artery pumping quickly, rushing to fill his heart, quickened in his excitement. Her heart beats erratically too, a mix of terror and excitement, waiting for him to inch close enough.

Through the drum of the blood rushing to her head, she hears Hannibal’s voice in her ear.

_Observe or Participate?_

* * *

“Han-nibal.” Her voice is soft and breathy over the line. He freezes for a moment, unsure of the reason for her call. They weren’t meant to have any communication until they each landed in Europe, and her flight wouldn’t leave Dulles for another week; his in three days from Newark.

“Bedelia, where are you?” His question is met with slow, laboring breaths. He hadn’t heard her voice in over a month; hadn’t seen her in even longer. Being declared missing and presumed dead had its downsides. His communication with the living was stunted, and he misses her body against him, her warm voice honied into his ear.

Hannibal paces across the floor in the isolated cabin, and remembers when she whispered the address into his ear and slid a key into the palm of his hand. _“No one will find you there.”_ Bedelia Du Maurier always had an exit plan; it was a quality he loved about her. Hannibal’s hair has grown longer. A well-trimmed beard, speckled with grey, hangs just below his chin. He looks nothing like himself in denim pants and flannel. Bedelia had prepared for this. Her own clothes rest in the drawers besides his own, jeans and t-shirts meant to make her blend in. He has never seen her in such clothes before. She had prepared this home for any situation. The cabinets housed months worth of nonperishables. When did she begin to alter her exit strategies to include him? Bedelia’s voice brings him out of his reverie.

“I’ve been attacked,” her voice is deep, and she labors for breath. The adrenaline wanes, and she groans. He hears her teeth chattering, clicking together lightly as she tries to speak. “It-it’s gone” she finally gets out, sounding devastated and so very small.  

“Bedelia, are you in your home?” Hannibal questions, his voice firm. He’s already exited the cabin and slid into the car registered under his procured identity. Traveling to Baltimore could put their plans at risk, could strip him once again of his freedom, but he had to reach her. “Bedelia?” he can’t stop the worry from seeping into his voice. He hears a loud thump and when he shouts her name into the phone, she doesn’t answer. His foot stomps on the gas, and he no longer cares about a life of imprisonment, just that she is safe.

* * *

 

The dinner party is small by Hannibal’s standards; together they are a group of six. Bedelia sits quietly, smiling lightly when mentioned, commenting softly when needed. _Never truly needed,_ she thinks to herself. When Hannibal takes her hand in his atop the elegant table, her heart flutters at the contact, feeling his thumb run across the space between her thumb and forefinger. It is a practiced gesture, but she soon realizes it’s not the same as _before_. He does not look at her, a gentle tilt of a smile on his face. The passion is gone. Bedelia emerged from her dinner-table-metamorphosis missing a leg and his affection. In its place is an incomplete imitation, their dinner party theatricals the only remaining relic from before. Although Hannibal has seemed to acquire a new person suit, tailored and impermeable, she feels as though hers is a tattered rag. Ornate dresses drape her body, but her clothing no longer provides protection; she is naked under his gaze. _Unbecoming._

Before Bedelia can further explore the innerworkings of her mind, and travel down the rabbit-hole of _touches,_ and _whispers_ of another lifetime, a comment about her beauty is made and she can’t help the feeling of exhibition. A prized animal to receive lavish praise and ribbons before its slaughter.

“Rebecca, I wish I had your _willpower!_ ” The woman sitting directly across from Bedelia admits, gesturing to her meager plate of salad greens. Her clear blue eyes briefly drift to meet the woman’s, before returning to her plate, unsettled by the _hunger_ in the older woman’s eyes. She can feel her eyes drift to the dip in her clavicle, sliding to the zygomatic arch and lingering, categorizing and coveting her flesh. It is a different experience, but also the same.

“My wife is a vegetarian,” Hannibal states easily, “her body unfortunately can’t properly digest meats- they make her ill,” he looks over to her, another half-truth shared between them. For a moment she sees concern in his gaze, perhaps in that she barely lifted two forkfuls of food into her mouth before she lost her appetite. Unfortunately, Bedelia cannot discern his genuineness. Hannibal is the perfect actor to fill the role of dotting husband and she easily slides into the epitome of a meek, but loving wife. She may have finally completely lost herself after all.

Across the table she sees one of the couples whispering softly. They are young, likely in their early 30s, and obviously in love- or at least lust. The man’s hand slides under the table and rests on what Bedelia presumes is a knee, _but perhaps not,_ and his companion smiles mischievously. She is not surprised when they rise and announce their departure, a party of six reduced to four. The man’s hand easily fits into his companion’s, and the jealousy that rests in her chest from the simple but sincere physical contact nearly makes her weep. Apparently, she has been starved in more ways than one; only one of her own volition.

Bedelia has become thinner in the near month spent in Buenos Aires and her once svelte figure now looks withered. Her diet is restricted even further: oysters, acorns, and marsala be damned. She thinks to a Margaret Atwood novel read in her youth, both empathizing with, and envying Marian. The difference being that Marian was repelled by metaphorical cannibalism. In these moments, of baroque displays of culinary expertise, she can smell her flesh; can taste the gossamer-thin glaze and succulent meat. Worse, she _craves_ it.

Hannibal makes another comment about his _lovely wife_ and she nearly sighs. Their lingering guests seem to take no notice of his performance, and smile warmly. _How lucky_ she is to have such a caring and _affectionate_ husband. It seems like a cruel joke that they have settled in a city known for its passion.

Soon, the remaining couple begins to tire from a riveting night of interesting conversation, and delicious food; their bodies stuffed unknowingly with the meat of an uncouth neighbor. Hannibal stands with ease, and she motions to follow. It isn’t standing that troubles her really, especially in the sturdy wooden arm chair. It is in these moments where she can reclaim her dignity and independence. His eyes never meet hers, but his voice gently cautions. “Don’t trouble yourself, _Dear.”_

It is only then when the older woman realizes; lets out a gasp. Her eyes lock again with Bedelia and she sees them change from envious to sympathetic.

“My wife is still recovering from a car accident, Iris,” Hannibal smoothly fills in the silence. “I apologize, I spoke to Peter and I thought he notified you.” Peter shifts from foot-to-foot, and looks constipated; he’s already preparing for a long night of tedious conversation with Iris.

Bedelia sits quietly at the empty table, unacknowledged in a conversation about herself. As Hannibal sees their guests to the door, her eyes become distant. She absently raises the wine to her lips, and smoothly swallows the rest of the dark substance before reaching for the bottle to refill her empty glass. Hannibal is soon at her side, propping the forearm crutches against the table within her reach, and easily plucking the bottle out of her fingers, “you have to be mindful of your medications, Bedelia” he gently chides.

Hannibal begins the process of collecting the dishes. He gently shakes his head when he reaches her plate, almost entirely full. “You must eat to regain your strength, Bedelia,” he says softly, lifting her plate. Her small hand touches his wrist, and he stops, turning to face her.

“When will the prosthetic arrive?” Her voice is cold and rough. He sighs heavily; they have had this conversation before, if he could call what they do now conversations.

“Bedelia, it’s far too early and you are not strong enough-”

“I can bear it.” Her voice was clip and sharp. Confident and unwavering. Hannibal sighed again. He had acquiesced when Bedelia insisted on the metal forearm crutches in lieu of the wheelchair he provided, but refused to rush to fit her into a prosthetic.

Hannibal hated the noises Bedelia made as she walked, the hitches in her breath as she pushed herself to the point of constant exhaustion while using the crutches. The frightened gasps when her right leg didn’t firmly take its next step and she faltered; momentarily feared falling. Worse, the moments when she did fall, releasing a soft grunt or moan despite her best efforts to stifle them. In these moments, he would race to her side, hoping to comfort her but instead finding her increasingly cold, pushing his hands away. Hannibal sighs again, his patience beginning to thin. She won’t let him forget that she received her medical license just as he did.

“Hannibal,” she breaths to keep her voice level “in this stage it’s perfectly normal-”

“Your case is nothing near _normal_ Bedelia.” He interrupts, his voice rising slightly as he attempts to reason with her. “all of the sutures had to be redone, your body rejected the transfusion and-”

“I’m fully aware of what has happened to my body, Hannibal!” she barks viciously, her palm smacking the tabletop. The glasses rattle. “and I am capable of taking care of myself.”

“Is that what this is about, Bedelia” he pauses, and she hates that he keeps saying her name. On his lips her name has become its own admonishment. “your pride?” he challenges.

Bedelia’s eyes harden in a flash and she plants her hands firmly on each side of the wooden chair to raise herself, her strong arms supporting her weight until she can stand. She slides her arms roughly into the braces of the metal crutches in her frustration and winces slightly, sucking in a breath as the coarse plastic comes into contact with her sore, tender triceps. Hannibal can’t help himself from reaching out to support her but she brushes him off, turning her back to him. His hand lingers for a moment before clenching into a fist, his exasperation slipping easily to anger at her rudeness.

She begins her retreat to the bedroom before pausing, only for the slightest moment. He follows her line of sight and catches her scrutinizing her reflection in the baroque mirror, before noticing him. Her azure eyes widen slightly and she looks away. He glances down below the hemline of her dress. Bedelia’s fine collection of Jimmy Choo heels likely sat undisturbed in her closet in Baltimore, a relic of a different time. The flats he’d packed hadn’t offered enough support or stability, they discovered quickly when she fell in the bathroom and nearly fractured her arm. She now wears a sneaker; sturdy, and slip resistant. He has finally looked under the veil of her impassivity and coldness, and he _sees_ her.

“or your vanity” he murmurs unconsciously.

She freezes, her spine rigid, and Hannibal realizes he spoke aloud. He notices the trembling first in her forearms but it quickly rises, her shoulders beginning to quake. He immediately crosses the short distance of the room to comfort her, not expecting what happens next.

“How _dare_ you,” she hisses viciously and he steps back as if slapped. She doesn’t sound anything like herself. Bedelia turns on him faster than he thought possible, seething. Her hands are wrapped so tightly around the grips of her crutches that they are losing circulation, turning ghostly white. Hannibal is rooted into his place on the hardwoods, a mixture of surprise and concern. Bedelia’s nature was neither cantankerous nor irascible. In the rare moments he was exposed to her temper, she was either short with him, or cool and impassive. Hannibal viewed her temper as a stove set to low heat. It could simmer, but it would never overflow. He had no response for Bedelia’s volatile fury, so unlike the indifferent calmness he associated with her. 

“Bedelia-”

“Don’t!” she shouts, seeming to shock them both at her volume. “Stop saying my name like _that_ ,” her voice is lower now, but he can feel her visceral anger. She is furious. “Don’t you _dare_ project your pathological narcissism onto me, you egocentric-”

“You nearly _died_!” He shouts in frustration. His eyes are wide and desperate, begging her to see. “I only wish to protect you” Hannibal says softly, his voice cracking with emotion. _I failed before,_ is unspoken, but lingers in the air. Tears gather in his eyes.

 “I am trapped here,” her voice is low and throaty. She sounds as if she might cry. Her tongue slides over her bottom lip and her eyes drift to the ceiling; they are glistening in the light. “Your protection comes at the cost of my dignity and freedom,” her voice breaks "I don't feel alive like this."

Hannibal closes the distance between them, his eyes searching hers. Freedom is something he understands.

“I have caged you,” he says in realization, the tears in his eyes beginning to overflow unchecked. He brings her into his arms and cups the back of her head. It is the most intimate they have been since her unbecoming. “I-I _never_ wanted this for you,” Hannibal whispers desperately into her hair. In his fear of losing her, he has inadvertently taken her vitality.

“What _did_ you want?” she whispers, her voice breathy, and her body pressed against his chest. She takes in the scent of his aftershave and it nearly transports her to a different time. She silently begs that he will indulge her question; that he will not retreat behind walls she can no longer climb.

“I wanted us to be happy.” he admits, his most pervasive fantasy. His time in prison spent in his memory palace, feeding her chocolate-dipped fruit. Holding her hand, and running his fingers through her thick hair. His favorite memories of are lying in bed with her; waking up next to her warm body each morning. Kissing her plush lips. Hannibal’s tears slide down his face and into her blonde locks, mourning the loss of the life they _almost_ had “like _before”_ he whispers. It is the first time they have actually discussed _before._

 “I can’t compete with _before,_ ” she murmurs sadly. “and I can’t handle your pity.” Hannibal feels as though something deep within her fractured at that moment, the release of a truth that’s waited to wreak havoc. In his longing he has made her feel inadequate to herself. It’s only a moment later that his thoughts are confirmed, as he hears soft, muffled sobs as her raw, unchecked emotions spill out and onto his shirt in wet, hot tears. It is the first time she has let him see her grief.

Hannibal motions to soothe her, his fingers sliding into her hair and gently rubbing small circles on her scalp. His touch is so much like _before_ that it nearly makes her collapse, but he holds her tighter, and she feels safe in his arms.

“It is not pity _,”_ Hannibal whispers quickly into the shell of her ear, his slight accent pronounced in his urgent need to amend her frame of mind. “it is regret.”

Bedelia looks at him then. There are tear tracks smearing her face. Her eyebrows quirk in confusion, and she searches his eyes. He never sought her forgiveness, knowing he failed in protecting her. A lifetime of apologies could never replace what had been taken. Regardless, she gives it to him freely. Her hand touches his face, and she shakes her head softly.

“Thank you for not being there,” a tear slides down her cheek and Hannibal slides the pads of his thumbs gently over her cheeks. He cups her face in his hands and brings her lips to his. They are just as she remembers. He is soon murmuring her name fervently, his hands in her hair and on her waist. When her tongue slips between his lips and she finally tastes him, she sighs in contentment.

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been working on this fic for MONTHS, never being able to get to the "ending" that I saw for Hannibal and Bedelia. Finally, I got to something I was satisfied with. Let me know what you though, and send me prompts on my tumblr, ShadequeenScully if you feel so inclined. Thanks for reading :)


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